Sentimental reciter/The Dewy Eve

THE DEWY EVE.

The dewy eve, the dewy eve,
Oh! that’s the hour for those that grieve;—
Wo hates the garish light of day,
And from the world hastes far away,
To hide the dimm’d and tearful eye;
To heave unheard the lab’ring sigh;
And cloak in twilight’s pall the grief
That finds in utterance relief,
Soothing and balmy, if but brief.

⁠The dewy eve, the dewy eve,
Oh! that’s the time when men believe
The wild romance or fairy tale,
At which the urchin’s cheek turns pale;
’Tis then they harvest soothing thought,
With wisdom or with fancy fraught;
Then gladly seek in stilly sleep
A refuge from these musings deep
That, changeful, make us smile or weep.

⁠The dewy eve, the dewy eve,
’Tis then that strange wild fancies cleave
With shadowy dim, but forceful sway
Around the heart; ’tis then that fay,
Peri, and genii, dance along
The verdant mead, with shout and song;—
How blythe their empire! Till ’tis past,
Fiend and demon of the blast
Are held in leaden bondage fast!

⁠The dewy eve, the dewy eve,
In that calm time, who would not leave
The festal hall—the busy strife
Of warring thoughts—the hum of life,
To brush from off the heather bell,
Or primrose in sequestered dell,
The freshening damp that at that hour
Falls, all unseen a gentle shower,
Symbol of Nature’s love and power.
⁠Atkinson